#plasticbeachserenade

Dido stands tall as trees on a plastic beach. Shoreline reversing—waves wider but less thick. A final bastion of being from a thing trying its best to not die. So—so they call it the earth.

Sticky sand, melting rocks, sweet gales. Winds of sugar and smoke, honied and horny, tasty and reviling. From somewhere, glass is air, water is volcanic, and towers of trash break the difference between these caustic currents.

Tornadoes pillage the seaside, aeolian lancers tending to garden on a continuous cleft they are often told they cannot have, but teenage anxiety is whirling in all of them, and these once tiny spirals of sound are now giants of gull, ripping their way to self-actualized maturity.

Hurricanes sprout up from the inland, furious trees of spinning roots and thunderous leaf—they are all at once appearing as a squalid squid, a haze of ink and blue, tentacles pulling over hill and mountain, as if the terrain was aquatic, and things terrene were marine.

Look to the feast of cities dotting across the coastline, eating up its soiled foundations, turning under itself like self-inflicted fellatio! Erosion as erotic. See the blob of nations expanding in heat, like a pregnant belly or fresh-cooked jell-o. Cuisine as causation.

Source?

Dido wonders—oh, human beings, why do you always wonder?

If answers were carbon your atmosphere would be drowning in wisdom-dioxide; a smog of pure truth suffocating your ignorant sensibilities. If habit was not so stubborn your societies may have grown out of this phase, and come to appreciate the limitations of being around each other.

Viruses manifest—but a good species spreads.

A genetic jam over telluric crust, making so many copied bubbles of flavor just waiting to be snapped by those cosmic turtles of lore, those ones which are infinite with maws of definity. All the way down they go, much like human hubris and its ability to hide in so many unconscious folds.

Dido, in her tyrian jersey, vibrant and voluminous, examines the little remains of sky as they are buried beneath fragrant fog. Poisonous, yet pomegranate-scented, as to make one forget they are being poisoned with each breath.

Look! she ignites a cigarette, her best impression of cool in these hot times, then she wades into the shallows, shins kicking around relics of recycling, corpses of consumerism. Behind her are the palaces of silicon saints, and she wants them to observe her backside like some old mammalian code of dominate body language—a back that strikes the marrow to pieces without ever wasting its spine.